


MasterChef High School

by eternaleponine



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Clexa Week 2020, Competition, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Frenemies, High School, Masterchef
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23025511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: Clarke and Lexa have both been selected as potential contestants in the first ever season of MasterChef High School, and they're both determined to come out the victor and claim the grand prize.While they wait to compete for an official place in the competition, Clarke approaches Lexa and strikes up a conversation, and neither of them can deny the instant connection they feel.  But can their decision to allow themselves to be "frenemies" survive the fact that in the end, only one of them can claim the ultimate prize?  In the heat and pressure of the kitchen, with the eyes of their fellow competitors, the judges, and the entire nation on them, could that initial spark kindle into something more?
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 31
Kudos: 78
Collections: Clexaweek2020





	MasterChef High School

_It really is like high school, isn't it?_ , Lexa thought as she watched the other potential contestants milling around the little courtyard outside the building that might or might not actually contain the MasterChef kitchen. This _was_ Hollywood, after all, and there was nothing real about reality TV. 

The contest was real enough – she hoped – but the hour (really closer to 42 minutes when you subtracted out the commercial breaks) the audience saw week after week was a carefully curated series of moments that served the narrative the producers thought was most compelling, and who was to say the whole thing wasn't rigged? Maybe not from the beginning, but she wasn't going to rule out the possibility that they might keep around a cook with less talent but more personality to keep people watching. 

Which meant she had to make herself an integral part of the narrative from the moment the cameras started rolling if she wanted to have any chance of taking home the money. The title of MasterChef and the fifteen minutes of fame that went along with it wouldn't hurt either, but it was the money she really needed. 

Why, then, was she sitting on the edge of a planter, far away from the others who were greeting each other like they'd just been reunited after summer vacation, forging friendships and alliances so they would all have a place to sit when it came time to face the gauntlet of the cafeteria?

 _Oh god,_ she thought. _What if they take this whole high school thing and run with it and decide to make the kitchen look like a cafeteria?_ They hadn't done it with MasterChef Junior, but they also hadn't called the first season of that show 'Freshman Class', so who was to say? 

"Do I have something on my face?"

Lexa blinked, and then blinked again, harder, sure she wasn't seeing clearly because the girl standing in front of her was too pretty to be real. "What?"

"I asked if I had something on my face," the girl said, wiping at the corner of her mouth just in case. "You're staring."

"I'm—" Lexa swallowed the impulse to defend herself. She hadn't been staring – hadn't even seen the girl – but she'd been zoned out enough it was possible it had looked like she was. And she was supposed to be making friends, right? "—sorry," she finished. "I didn't mean to." She pressed her lips together, not sure if she was trying to smile or trying not to. "And no, there's nothing on your face." 

"That's good," the girl said. "Mind if I join you?" She didn't wait for Lexa to answer, just sat down beside her, close enough that their arms brushed as she turned to face her, extending a hand. "I'm Clarke," she said. 

"Lexa," she answered, taking the offered hand and shaking it. 

"Ooh, ouch," Clarke said, her thumb skimming over the pink patch of skin on Lexa's hand where it was still healing. "That had to hurt."

Lexa's mouth went dry and her lungs forgot how to draw in air. For a second she just gaped at Clarke, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water before she finally managed to wheeze, "Caramel," she said. "It's like napalm."

Clarke sucked in a big enough breath for both of them, grimacing. "What were you making?" she asked. 

"Caramel," Lexa said, and might have facepalmed at herself if Clarke hadn't still had hold of her hand. "It was supposed to be filling for my cousin's birthday cake." 

"Supposed to be?" Clarke asked. 

"I didn't get to finish," Lexa said. "My aunt insisted on taking me to the ER. I told her it wasn't serious, but she didn't want to hear it." She shrugged. "It doesn't hurt anymore." 

"That's good," Clarke said, tracing her thumb over the healing wound one more time before letting go. "Hopefully there won't be any caramel-related challenges."

"I'm not afraid," Lexa said, hearing the tense edge in her voice that made her words sound like a lie. 

Clarke looked at her, her head tipped slightly to the side. "I didn't say you were," she said. "I just hate seeing people get hurt."

"You don't need to worry about me," Lexa said. "I never make the same mistake twice." 

Clarke smiled. "Good to know."

* * *

The swarm of butterflies in Lexa's stomach that had started flapping in earnest when Clarke touched her went into overdrive when her name was called for her turn to face the judges for the first time. They were being called in in groups of six, and out of the six only two would get to continue in the competition. There was a two in three chance that her dreams would be shattered in the next hour. 

_It's not going to happen,_ she told herself. _You can't let it happen._

"Good luck," Clarke said. 

"I don't need luck," Lexa said, and marched through the doors and onto the MasterChef set.

She was shown to her station and the rules of the challenge were explained to them quickly by a production assistant (or something – Lexa didn't know their exact title, only that it wasn't one of the judges). She assumed they had already filmed the judges presenting the challenge and explaining the rules, and they didn't want to make Gordon Ramsay repeat himself for each new group of kids. 

"Your time starts now," they announced, and Lexa hurried to the MasterChef pantry, snatching up a basket and stuffing it with ingredients, not all of which she was sure she was going to use, but she didn't want to find herself missing something she decided she needed later and not being able to go back and get it. She tried not to glare at the gangly boy who cut her off on her way back to her station, smacking into her elbow with his basket. He didn't even apologize, just shoved past and dumped his ingredients on his station.

Lexa laid everything out methodically, knowing that efficiency was more important than speed. If she knew where everything was, she wouldn't waste precious minutes searching for a peeler or a clove of garlic. 

Once everything was in its place, she got to work, chopping and stirring, dumping ingredients into her pan one after another, taking a bite here and a taste there to make sure everything was seasoned perfectly. There was no way she was going to be told that she could have used more salt, or that her dish was lacking flavor. She didn't always have access to the best ingredients at home, so she'd learned how to compensate with seasoning. Her cousin Anya had even helped her create a little indoor herb garden so she would always have what she needed on hand fresh. 

The minutes ticked by, and as they hit the single digits she had to push down a wave of panic. _You have plenty of time,_ she told herself. _You're exactly where you need to be. Just get your plates ready. It's going to be fine._

And when they finally signaled that time was up, her dish was on the plate, arranged just so and the edges wiped clean. She waited anxiously for her name to be called, knowing that the dish got colder with every passing minute. Surely the judges wouldn't fault her if they tasted the dish at a less than optimal temperature? They had to be used to it by now. She strained her ears to hear the comments they gave to the other hopefuls, grinding her teeth when they praised the dish created by the rude boy, whose name was John, but he went by Murphy.

She was the last one called, and she carried her plate to the judging table with her chin held high. She watched as Gordon cut into the meat and took a bite of the vegetables, then passed the plate along to the next judge, and then the third. None of them said anything at first, and she couldn't read their expressions. Her stomach was in knots waiting for their verdict.

"How old are you?" Gordon asked.

"Seventeen," Lexa said. 

"A senior?"

"Yes, Chef." 

"What is it you're planning to do after you graduate?"

"I want to go to culinary school," Lexa said. She pressed her lips together, trying not to frown. "If I can't do that, I'll have to enlist in the military." It was why she was here. If she didn't win the money, if she didn't prove to her father that she was the best of the best, she would be forced to follow in his footsteps because she wouldn't be able to afford to do anything else. 

Gordon paused, considering her more closely. He hadn't missed the significance of her wording. "Well, young lady, that would be a loss to the culinary world," he said. "The meat was moist, the vegetables crisp, the potatoes smooth and creamy, and everything was seasoned to perfection. If you continue to cook like this, you will go far not just in this competition, but as a future chef." 

"Thank you," Lexa said, trying not to grin like an idiot. She went back to her station, and they all waited while the judges talked. Finally, they turned to face them again, and she clenched her hands into fists, her nails – short as they were – digging into her palms. 

"It was a difficult decision," Gordon said. "All of you have done very well today, and you should be proud of making it this far. But as you know, only twenty will be moving on to the main competition. The first one we have chosen to continue in the competition is..." He paused for dramatic effect, then announced, "Murphy. Come up and get your apron." 

Lexa wanted to slap the smug smirk off his face as he strutted to the front. 

"And the second cook who will be continuing is..." Another pause, longer than the first, and Lexa held her breath until she started to see stars. She finally sucked in a breath just as Gordon called, "Lexa!"

* * *

Lexa hadn't been staring. Clarke had. From the moment she noticed the girl sitting away from everyone else, like a queen on her throne sizing up the enemy army and formulating her plan for battle, Clarke hadn't been able to tear her eyes away. Her heart had nearly stopped when the girl's eyes had landed on her and stayed fixed, thinking she'd been caught and now there was going to be some kind of confrontation, but she quickly realized she wasn't looking at her but through her, as if she didn't even exist.

There was no way Clarke was going to let herself not exist. 

And her heart had nearly stopped again when she saw the faint flush rising in Lexa's cheeks when Clarke had taken her hand and not let go, the way it had reduced her from a battle-hardened monarch to a mere mortal, as subject to the peregrinations of the heart as anyone else. 

_Good,_ a cruel little part of her had thought. _Get her off her game. Soften the battlefield._

She'd stuffed that little Machiavellian part of her down. She was here to compete, here to _win_ , but she had no idea if Lexa was any good in the kitchen to begin with, if she was any threat, and Clarke believed in karma. Whatever she put out into the universe would come back to her threefold.

 _Positive vibes only,_ she reminded herself, and wished Lexa luck when her name was called.

"I don't need luck," she said, rising in a fluid motion and disappearing into the room where her fate – all of their fates – would be decided. 

Clarke wasn't in the next group called, or the next, but Lexa hadn't come back and what did that mean? Had she not made the cut? Had Clarke's momentary mental lapse into cutthroat competitor doomed her? 

_That's not how it works,_ she tried to reassure herself. _Actions speak louder than words, or thoughts, and you didn't do anything to sabotage her._ Unless she really had thrown her off her game by flirting... but she hadn't really been flirting. She'd just been...

She didn't know what she'd been doing. All she knew was that she wanted to see Lexa again, even if it was going up against her in a competition only one of them could win.

The number of kids in the courtyard dwindled until there were only six left, and they were called in by a member of the production team who looked like they were ready for this day to be over and ushered to their stations. 

_Just cook like you know how,_ she told herself. _Cook like no one's watching._

But people were watching. The other competitors out of the corners of their eyes, and Gordon Ramsay and the other judges from the front, and sometimes the sides, making their way from station to station observing, making a comment here or there. Clarke tried to drown it all out and focus on what she was doing. What if she'd jinxed herself by teasing – had she been teasing? – Lexa about no caramel-related challenges? What if Clarke burned herself, or cut herself, and lost her chance? 

"Breathe," she muttered. "Just breathe." Then she looked around, afraid the cameras might have caught her talking to herself, and she would be shown as the nervous one who had to talk to herself to stay calm. God, this was so much harder than practicing in her kitchen...

Time was called, and Clarke looked down at her plate. Was it good enough? Would the judges like it? It had been her father's favorite meal, one of the first things she'd learned to make all by herself, one of last things she'd made for him... 

Would she tell the judges that? Did she want to be The One With the Tragic Backstory? Would sympathy earn her a place if her food didn't? Who really made the decisions regarding who made it through to the next round and who didn't? Surely production had a say... but maybe they'd already weeded out the kids who weren't interesting enough for the screen in the casting process, and now it really was down to how well they did in the kitchen. 

Her name was called to bring her plate to the front, and she tried not to let her nerves show as she faced them, watching them sample the different components on the plate. Chef Ramsay looked up her from beneath his eyebrows. "Who taught you how to cook?" he asked. 

Clarke swallowed. Had he already been tipped off? Was this part of some script she wasn't privy to? "My father," she said. "This was his favorite."

"I can see why," Gordon said. "Everything is well-executed. Your technique is impeccable, and your flavors are spot-on. This is one of the best dishes we've tasted all day. You've done your father proud." 

Clarke's eyes stung, and she blinked hard against the tears. "Thank you," she said, her voice choked. 

Gordon looked at her again, his head cocked. "Are you all right?" he asked, and it was the voice of a concerned father, not a judge or someone playing a role, and that made it even harder to hold back the flood of emotion. 

Clarke sniffed and wiped at her eyes. "He passed away," she said softly. "He was the one who encouraged me to apply when we heard they were doing a teen MasterChef." _I found out I'd been chosen the day after his funeral._

"I'm so sorry," Gordon said. He picked up a napkin and handed it to her, and she dabbed at her eyes. 

"Thank you, Chef," she said, and went back to her station, knowing the cameras were following her the whole way. 

She didn't even try to listen in on the other critiques, focusing instead on keeping herself calm and collected in case any of the cameras were still on her. She knotted her hands together in front of her when the last potential contestant had returned to his station, crossing as many fingers as she could and then uncrossing them because it was a silly, childish gesture and it was too late to influence whatever decision was going to be made. 

"The first one who will be moving forward in the competition is Clarke!" Gordon announced, and Clarke froze for a second, sure she'd heard wrong. She almost pointed to her chest to confirm, but he was looking right at her, smiling and holding up an apron, and she mentally shook herself and forced her feet into motion.

"Thank you, Chef," she said as she took the apron from him and draped it over her neck. 

"You earned it," he said, then picked up the last apron to present to the person who would take the final slot. Clarke didn't register the name, only the hisses and glares aimed in her direction. She tried to shut it out, to tell herself pity wasn't enough to get her chosen. Even if it had been part of the decision, it gave her the chance to prove all of them wrong. She was going to win.

She marched out with her head held high and found the rest of those who had made it through the elimination waiting in the courtyard. She quickly scanned the small crowd and couldn't contain her grin when she saw Lexa among them. She dashed down the steps toward her, stopping a few steps short. "You made it!"

"So did you," Lexa said. "Congratulations." There was something wary in her tone, like she thought Clarke might be pulling something, or trying to get in her head. 

Maybe she was, just a little, but only a little. Clarke was genuinely glad they'd both made it. Sure, they would be competing against each other, but that didn't mean they couldn't be friends, did it? They would be stuck with each other for... well, she didn't know for how long. It was possible one of them could be eliminated in the next round, which would start filming tomorrow. 

Lexa seemed to be having the same thought. "There can be only one," she said. 

Clarke's eyebrows went up. "Highlander? Really?" She'd watched the show with her father, rolling her eyes the whole time, but he'd loved it when he was younger and he'd been determined to make her love it too. She hadn't, although she guessed it had a kind of cheezy charm, but she'd loved him, so she'd sat through the entire series, and the movies. 

Lexa shrugged, the hint of a smile twitching the corners of her lips, and Clarke shook her head. "I refuse to be cast as part of a teen drama," Clarke said. "I'm here to compete, but that doesn't mean we have to be enemies." 

Lexa considered, then held out her hand. "Frenemies?"

Clarke laughed and shook. "I'll take it."

* * *

"Who's the girl?" Anya asked that night in the hotel room they would be sharing for the duration... however long that might end up being. At least it was one of the long-term places with a separate sitting area and mini kitchen, but they still had to share a bedroom. Lexa wasn't looking forward to it; no matter how many times Anya denied it, she snored. When Lexa had recorded it and played it back to her, she'd still denied it.

"What girl?" Lexa asked, knowing damn well what girl Anya was referring to.

Her cousin – her father's sister's daughter – rolled her eyes so hard Lexa thought they might get stuck staring into the back of her head. "The one you were staring at the entire time we were at dinner," she said. "The one you were so focused on you missed your mouth with your fork. Twice."

"No one," Lexa said, scrubbing at her mouth to erase the memory of the feeling of metal tines jabbing into her lip. "Just one of the other competitors." 

"Uh-huh," Anya said. 

"Her name is Clarke," Lexa finally admitted. "We decided we could be frenemies." 

Anya snorted. "Right. Why didn't you invite her to join us? I know it's not because you want the pleasure of my company all to yourself."

"I didn't want to give you the chance to embarrass me," Lexa said, sticking out her tongue. She was mostly joking... but only mostly. Anya could have a big mouth when she wanted to, and she didn't want to give Clarke – or let Anya give Clarke – any ammunition to use against her later. 

Not that she would. Probably. And it was a cooking competition; their personal lives had nothing to do with it. Hopefully.

"I would never do that," Anya said. "It's not like I have naked baby bathtub pictures of you on my phone or anything..." 

A chill went through Lexa. "You don't," she said. "You better not." 

Anya held up her phone and jiggled it. "You'll never know," she said, and collapsed back on her bed, laughing, when Lexa lunged at her, trying to wrest it away. But Anya had taught her basically everything she knew about self-defense, and she was the one who ended up pinned, panting even after Anya sprawled beside her. "I would never," she said seriously. "You know that."

"I know," Lexa said. 

"She's cute, though," Anya said, nudging her. 

"Don't go playing matchmaker," Lexa grumbled, sitting up. "This isn't The Bachelorette."

Anya grinned. "Who says it can't be both?"


End file.
